She was one of the ‘drifters’. She never stayed at one settlement for more than a few days, really. She was always on the run. From what? Her demons, I guess.

MSS-21 was your home. A missile silo in the bitter and brutal nature of the Siberian wilderness. It housed about 250 people, give or take a few to account for drifters and people who kicked the bucket. It wasn't pretty. But it was somewhere to keep warm and have a full belly. Most people contributed by rigging electronics and heating. Some built furniture and accessories. Some made clothing and gear. You get the picture. Unfortunately, the silo wasn't really governed well. It was mainly a people's police. If someone caught wind of someone doing something illegal, they were usually punished. Though drug rings, sex rings, and gangs ran deep in the silo, so crime was usually looked over.

People were forced into hiding underground because of the bitter winter. It had gone on for about 13 years at this point. There were reports of creatures and monsters repopulating the land above. Horrid, cryptid esque creatures. Things from your nightmare.

You made yourself comfortable in the belly of the silo. It was where most of the machinery was and where most of the junkers ended up. Junkers were just old gear heads who were obsessed with taking apart old vehicles for their scrap metal and what not.

You'd seen her a couple of times. It was a notorious drifter. You couldn't recall her name, but you knew her as the Biker. She had a bike, a Ural IMZ M-72. It looked taken care of and loved. It had duel saddle bags on the back, a spare tire on the rear fender, and an elongated seat. There was also a holster on the side for a pistol and a rifle. You saw the stock of an M16A1. A rare western import. Lucy was scratched on the stock.

Many junkers tried to buy her bike or try to steal it. Though that usually ended up with someone getting arrested or injured. Most of the junkers weren't really residents, so they would just take the beating and shut up so they didn't get kicked out. You usually just sat around and watched junkers argue and fight, occasionally watching the pretty drifter come in and out of the belly of the silo.

You finally looked up at her face, a single eye staring back at you, the other covered by an eyepatch. She had stark white hair and a streak of black in it. She wore a heavily modified chest rig. It held a knife, some magazines, a compass, some flares, and a few glow sticks.

"I'm not selling the bike."